English

Stella , since thou so right a princess art
Of all the powers which life bestows on me,
That ere by them aught undertaken be,
They first resort unto that sovereign part;
Sweet, for a while give respite to my heart,
Which pants as though it still should leap to thee;
And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy
To this great cause, which needs both use and art;
And as a queen, who from her presence sends
Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit,
Till it have wrought what thy own will attends.

O absent presence, Stella is not here;
False flatt'ring hope, that with so fair a face
Bare me in hand, that in this orphan place
Stella , I say my Stella , should appear.
What say'st thou now, where is that dainty cheer
Thou told'st mine eyes should help their famished case?
But thou art gone, now that self-felt disgrace
Doth make me most to wish thy comfort near.
But here I do store of fair ladies meet,
Who may with charm of conversation sweet
Make in my heavy mould new thoughts to grow:

Unhappy sight, and hath she vanished by,
So near, in so good time, so free a place?
Dead glass, dost thou thy object so embrace
As what my heart still sees thou canst not spy?
I swear by her I love and lack that I
Was not in fault, who bent thy dazzling race
Only unto the heav'n of Stella 's face,
Counting but dust what in the way did lie.
But cease, mine eyes, your tears do witness well
That you, guiltless thereof, your nectar missed:
Cursed be the page from whom the bad torch fell,

O happy Thames , that didst my Stella bear,
I saw thyself, with many a smiling line
Upon thy cheerful face, joy's liv'ry wear,
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine.
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear,
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine
Ravished, stayed not, till in her golden hair
They did themselves (O sweetest prison) twine.
And fain those Aeol 's youths there would their stay
Have made, but forced by Nature still to fly,
First did with puffing kiss those locks display:

Where be those roses gone, which sweetened so our eyes?
Where those red cheeks, which oft with fair increase did frame
The height of honour in the kindly badge of shame?
Who hath the crimson weeds stol'n from my morning skies?
How doth the colour vade of those vermilion dyes
Which Nature's self did make, and self engrained the same?
I would know by what right this paleness overcame
That hue, whose force my heart still unto thraldom ties?
Galen 's adoptive sons, who by a beaten way

Stella is sick, and in that sick-bed lies
Sweetness, that breathes and pants as oft as she;
And grace, sick too, such fine conclusions tries
That sickness brags itself best graced to be.
Beauty is sick, but sick in so fair guise
That in that paleness beauty's white we see;
And joy, which is inseparate from those eyes,
Stella now learns (strange case) to weep in thee.
Love moves thy pain, and like a faithful page,
As thy looks stir, runs up and down to make
All folks prest at thy will thy pain t'assuage;

Ah bed, the field where joy's peace some do see,
The field where all my thoughts to war be trained,
How is thy grace by my strange fortune stained!
How thy lee shores by my sighs stormed be!
With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest me
To steal some rest, but wretch I am constrained
(Spurred with love's spur, though galled and shortly reined
With care's hard hand) to turn and toss in thee;
While the black horrors of the silent night
Paint woe's black face so lively to my sight

Dian , that fain would cheer her friend the Night,
Shows her oft at the full her fairest face,
Bringing with her those starry nymphs, whose chase
From heav'nly standing hits each mortal wight.
But ah, poor Night, in love with Phoebus ' light,
And endlessly despairing of his grace,
Herself (to show no other joy hath place)
Silent and sad in mourning weeds doth dight:
E'en so (alas) a lady, Dian 's peer,
With choice delights and rarest company,
Would fain drive clouds from out my heavy cheer.

O fate, O fault, O curse, child of my bliss,
What sobs can give words grace my grief to show?
What ink is black enough to paint my woe?
Through me, wretch me, e'en Stella vexed is.
Yet truth (if caitiff's breath might call thee) this
Witness with me, that my foul stumbling so,
From carelessness did in no manner grow,
But wit confused with too much care did miss.
And do I then myself this vain 'scuse give?
I have (live I and know this?) harmed thee,
Though worlds 'quit me, shall I myself forgive?

Be your words made (good sir) of Indian ware,
That you allow me them by so small rate?
Or do you cutted Spartans imitate?
Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,
That to my questions you so total are?
When I demand of phoenix Stella 's state,
You say, forsooth, you left her well of late.
O God, think you that satisfies my care?
I would know whether she did sit or walk;
How clothed, how waited on; sighed she or smiled;
Whereof, with whom, how often did she talk;